"No." She turned away and reached for her goblet, the brandy stinging her throat as she gulped it down. "Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all." She drank again and said, "I think you had better go."

  "Is that what you want?"

  "You know damned well it isn't." She spoke quickly, letting the words flow without restraint. "It's the last thing I want, but for you to stay is the worst thing which could happen. The worst for me. Do you think I could sleep knowing you are in the house? That you are somewhere close while I—" She broke off. "No."

  "I shall stay," he said flatly. "I won't bother you. You will bathe and sleep and forget that I am here. But I am not going to leave you alone."

  He was too strong for her. Too strong. And then, surrendering, she thought, why not? Why not do as Shamar had hinted? Why not, just for once, know what it was to be a real woman?

  If he stayed she would not sleep alone.

  The phone rang before she could tell him that. The soft hum died as he hit the button. Hamane's face showed on the screen.

  "Veruchia," he said. "I am letting everyone know. Chorzel is dead."

  Chapter Four

  Nothing had changed. Striding into the palace Montarg felt as if he had been cheated. The Owner had ruled so long that it seemed incredible that things should continue as before. Yet the city hummed with life in the morning sun, the subtenants and landless ones indifferent to the events of the previous night. So much for greatness. The ruler of a world died and no one seemed to care.

  But he cared and Veruchia would care but then, of course, they had reason.

  He mounted the last of the stairs and strode down a passage to where an elevator wafted him high into the building. Chorzel had lived here, loving to stand at his window and see the activity below. He had had the entire section redecorated with barbaric splendor, bright hues and suggestive carvings, shields, swords and helmets set against the walls: a childish extension of his love of the arena.

  A scarlet shadow rose before him.

  "My lord?"

  One of the cyber's acolytes, always on guard, a youth dedicated to his master's welfare and the organization to which he belonged.

  "I am Montarg. Surat is expecting me."

  "A moment, my lord." The shadow drifted away and returned silently. "You may enter, my lord."

  The cyber occupied a suite of rooms, spartan in their stark simplicity, containing only the essentials of living with no space given to items of luxury. He rose as Montarg entered and stood by his desk, a living flame in the scarlet of his robe, the seal of the Cyclan glittering on his breast. The room was warm despite the conditioning and Surat had thrown back the cowl of his robe. In the light streaming through the windows his shaven head had the appearance of a skull.

  "My lord." He bowed, waiting.

  Montarg said, "Congratulations, cyber, your prediction was one hundred percent correct. The Owner is dead."

  "An easy prediction to make, my lord."

  "True, all men must die, but you stated the very hour of his passing."

  "A matter of simple extrapolation, my lord." The cyber's voice was an even modulation devoid of any irritating factor. "I knew his physical condition and I had information from the life-support apparatus to which he was attached. To predict his death was a thing any acolyte could do with as great an accuracy. I trust the prediction was of value?"

  "It gained me time, cyber. I must thank you for that."

  "And now, my lord?"

  "Hamane is suspicious He insists on conducting an investigation into the Owner's death. What will be found?"

  "The prediction that he will discover traces of assassination is of a probability factor of sixty-eight point seven. He will be swayed by his own inability to account for the unexpected relapse and eager to shift the blame. The evidence will be insufficient to convince others."

  Montarg nodded, relieved. "There is little doubt that I shall inherit The question now is are you willing to serve me as you did Chorzel?"

  "I serve the Cyclan, my lord. If you wish to engage their services it could no doubt be arranged. Would your policy be the same?"

  "I don't know. I must think about it. Chorzel had some good ideas but I'm not sure that he operated with the highest possible efficiency." His tone sharpened a little. "I hold you to blame for that, cyber. He relied on your services a little too much. A man should make his own decisions."

  "I advise, my lord, nothing more. I do not judge, condemn or take sides. My duties lie in offering you the logical outcome of any proposed course of action, to help you arrive at a decision by presenting you with the inevitable result of any sequence of events."

  To take a handful of facts and from them to extrapolate a hundred more. To take what was and to predict what must inevitably be. A living computer with a machine for a brain.

  "Power," said Montarg slowly. "Chorzel wanted power. But he owned a world, what greater power could a man have?"

  "What is power, my lord? Wealth? Money can only buy the things which are available. Force? Always there is the danger that a greater force may arise to crush your own. Influence? That is determined by the shift of circumstance. True power lies in only one thing: the ability to make others do as you dictate. Once achieve that and the rest will follow. But a civilized man is rarely loyal in the truest sense of the word. His mind is diversified, his energies unchanneled, lost in a web of opposed ideals. The late Owner knew that."

  Montarg knew it too well. He remembered the long talks, the theories, the empty yearning in Chorzel's voice when he had spoken of other cultures: how a thousand men had willingly died at their ruler's word; how old chieftains had been buried with a hundred warriors who had slain themselves in order to follow their leader into death. Loyalty of such a nature was rare.

  "He wanted to be a king in the truest sense," he said. "To sit on his throne and know that he had the world at his feet."

  "And you, my lord?"

  The temptation was irresistible: to sit in the high box at the arena, to occupy the royal seat and to hold ultimate rule. He remembered the roar of the crowd and imagined what it would be like for them to roar, not at the spectacle of death, but at the sight of his living presence. To own a world, not of tenants and landless ones, but of slaves.

  He blinked, conscious of the cyber's watching eyes, aware that his imagination had been led down selected paths. But still the temptation remained.

  "We must discuss this once I have inherited. What is your prediction as to that?"

  "The probability that the Council will recognize your claim is eighty nine percent."

  "It should be a hundred."

  "That would be certainty, my lord, and nothing can be certain. Always there is the possibility of an unknown factor and any prediction must allow for that. And I must warn you that my prediction is based on my present knowledge as to the situation. If there is anything you know which could affect it you would be wise to keep me informed."

  Montarg glanced at the papers neatly piled on the desk, a mass of reports and associated data, trivia some of it, but every scrap holding meaning to the cyber.

  Dryly he said, "Your own sources of information seem adequate."

  "There is a time-lag, my lord, impossible to avoid. An event could be taking place at this very second which would completely alter the value of my prediction. An assassin waiting to kill you, for example. If he was successful how could you inherit?"

  "You suspect that?"

  "The order of probability is very low, but still it exists and must be taken into account. Therefore, my lord, if you have any information of recent origin, do not hesitate to let me know."

  "Selkas has been unusually active." Montarg glowered. "Who would have guessed that he would take such an interest? Episko could not be found, his servants said that he was on a hunt, and Boghara has demanded a promise that, if I inherit, I will close the arena. And Veruchia has a lover," be added as an afterthought. "A fighter from the arena."

  "A lover, my lord?"

  "Incredible, isn't it? A day ago you would have predicted it an impossibility. Anyone would who knew her. But the fact remains, I have the news from those who saw them together, and there can be no doubt. They said she was acting like a stupid girl. Probably paying him off for having won her so much money." His face darkened at the memory. "Dumarest," he said. "Earl Dumarest. I shall remember that name."

  "It would not be wise to pursue what you have in mind, my lord."

  "Why not? Veruchia made me look a fool and to rob her of her lover would be a sweet revenge."

  "He is a trained fighter. You could hire assassins but they could fail and they could be made to talk. I must emphasize the delicacy of any predictions I may make at this time, my lord. Small events can have far reaching consequences and could easily upset the present pattern. Perhaps you would be interested in studying certain extrapolations I have made based on varying courses of action suggested by the late Owner. They may serve as a guide to your own decisions."

  Later, when Montarg left the cyber's chamber, he halted before the barbaric decorations, his head swimming with golden concepts. Chorzel had been more devious than he'd guessed; the future prospects as displayed by Surat were intoxicating in their promise.

  He let his eyes drift over the shields, the swords, helmets and spears, the suggestive carvings. Now they did not seem as childish as they had before.

  * * *

  Alone Surat stood for a long moment beside his desk and then, sitting, allowed his mind to integrate the recently acquired data, Montarg was no problem; the man was like a child easily bribed with bright toys, unable to see the hand offering the bait. He could be swayed and influenced and led in the path the Cyclan wished him to take. When he became the Owner he would have all the trappings of rule but the real power would reside, as always, with the organization of which Surat was a part.

  He pressed a button and, as an acolyte entered the room, said, "A man fought in the arena, yesterday. His name is Dumarest. Obtain all available information."

  The young man bowed. "Yes, master."

  "At once. The matter is urgent."

  He returned to the papers on his desk, scanning them with trained speed, assimilating a thousand items of information, his brain, even as he read, correlating them into a whole. Crops had failed in the Tien province, a tidal wave had destroyed a village on the coast, fissures had been seen at a point far to the south. In the city a man had been murdered, apparently attacked without reason and his body viciously hacked with knives. Two new shops had opened dealing in the sale of defensive clothing. A proposal stood before the Council for the construction of a larger arena. Attrition among those taking higher education had once again shown a marked increase. The police were demanding greater mobility and higher pay.

  The communicator hummed and he pressed the button. It was the acolyte making his report.

  "Master, the man Dumarest arrived on Dradea five days ago. He had little credit and used it all to pay for lodgings and a high-protein diet. Apparently unable to obtain suitable employment he volunteered to fight in the arena. At present he resides in the home of High Tenant Veruchia."

  "He is to be kept under surveillance. Attend to it."

  "Master."

  The young face, already hard in its determination, vanished as Surat broke the connection. Another, almost its twin, met Surat's eyes as he entered his inner room.

  "Maximum seal," he ordered. Even command did not harden the soft tones of his voice, but there was no need for aural emphasis. "No interruption of any nature is to be permitted."

  As the acolyte left to stand guard at the closed door of the chamber, Surat touched the thick bracelet locked around his left wrist. Invisible forces flowed from the mechanism to set up a field which no spying device could penetrate.

  Lying supine on the narrow bed he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formulae. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing became shallow, his temperature dropped as if he were asleep. Gradually he lost all sense of feeling; had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. He rested, detached, unstimulated by external reality, only his individual awareness locked within his skull remaining alive. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements become active.

  Surat entered another world.

  It was a place of shifting rainbows, a wondrous kaleidoscope of varying colors, crystalline, splintering into new and entrancing formations. He seemed to move through a maze of brilliance, shafts and spears and arching lines of the purest color reaching endlessly to all sides. Planes shifted and he caught glimpses of unguessable truths, all the mysteries of the universe trembling at the edge of discovery. And the colors were alive, throbbing with intelligence and personal awareness. He was one with them, of them, sharing and giving in a universal gestalt, feeling his ego expand even as it was taken and used to expand that of others.

  And somewhere towards the center of that dazzling complex of light was the pulsing heart and brain of the Cyclan. Buried deep beneath miles of rock the central intelligence was the nexus from which flowed the tremendous power which spanned worlds. It touched his mental presence and absorbed his knowledge as light swallows darkness. There was nothing as slow as verbal communication, only a mental communion in the form of words—instantaneous, organic transmission against which the speed of supra-radio was the merest crawl.

  "Dumarest! On Dradea?"

  Affirmation.

  "Incredible that previous predictions could have been so incorrect. There is no possibility of doubt."

  Negation.

  "The possibility of error remains. Until it is resolved give him your full attention. The importance of this man cannot be overemphasized. All care must be taken. Keep me informed."

  Agreement.

  "Accelerate plans as regards new Owner. Time permitted for fulfillment reduced by one-quarter."

  A question.

  "Under no circumstances. You will be held personally responsible."

  That was all.

  The rest was an ecstasy of mental intoxication, the nearest thing to sensual pleasure a cyber could ever know.

  Always after rapport, during the time when the grafted Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the machinery of the body began to reassociate itself with the mind, came this period of supreme revelation. Surat drifted in an endless limbo while he sensed alien memories and unremembered situations, caught flashes of eerie thought, experienced strange environments: scraps of overflow from other minds, the residue of powerful intelligences, caught and transmitted by the power of central intelligence, the vast cybernetic complex which was the power of the Cyclan.

  One day he would become a part of it.

  He rose to full awareness, opening his eyes and looking at the sunlight painting bright patterns on the ceiling of his chamber, tracing in the symmetry of light and shadow the lines of his own future. His body would age and die but his brain would be salvaged, taken and incorporated into the body of central intelligence, there to remain living and aware until the end of time. He would become a part of a superior being, a massed complex of living brains, sharing and experiencing always the gestalt he had just experienced.

  His reward. The reward of every cyber if they obeyed and did not fail.

  * * *

  She was young and lithe and full of passion. She had come to him with a burning intensity, throwing aside all restraint. In the darkness the skein of ebon she wore had been invisible; in the daylight he saw only that it added to her beauty.

  "Lover!" She clung to him as water gushed over their heads, sharing her shower as he had shared everything else. "Earl, you wonderful, wonderful man!"

  She snuggled against him as his hand stroked the barred mane of her hair. Her finger traced the thin cicatrices on his torso.

  "You're marked too. We've a lot in common."

  "Does it bother you?" He smiled down into her upturned face, liking the way she screwed up her eyes against the impact of the water.

  "That you're scarred? Of course not." She lowered her face, her voice muffled against his chest. "Earl, it wasn't just a hunger? I mean, you didn't stay with me because I was just a woman?"

  "No."

  "I believe you," she said. "I want to believe you. But more than that I want the truth. You don't have to be afraid to tell me. I'd rather know than guess and, well, men do these things, don't they? Have casual relationships, I mean. Have you?"

  "Yes, but this wasn't one of those times."

  "You knew that I wanted you to say that." She turned off the water and they felt the warm blast of scented air drying their skins. "You're kind, Earl, and gentle and wonderfully understanding. I suppose you think I'm talking and acting like a fool. Well, maybe I am, but it was the first time and I've never felt like this before."

  Happy, she thought. This must be what is meant by happiness. To feel all soft and romantic and really alive. A woman in love and who is loved in return. If he did love her. If he hadn't just used her. Firmly she shook her head. Such thoughts were destructive and had no place now.

  She reached up and wound her arms around his neck, pressing herself close as she kissed him on the lips. If this were madness then let it rule. The hum of the phone seemed to come from a great distance.

  "Damn!" She wanted to let it ring but the tone was imperious. "I'd better answer it, it could be important. Don't vanish now. Promise?"

  Dumarest smiled as she ran from the shower. Dried, he began to dress, adjusting the tunic as she returned.

  "It was Selkas, he's coming right over." Naked, she closed the distance between them. "I don't know what he's going to think when he sees you here. He'll probably call me all kinds of a bitch and not want to see me again."

  "No," said Dumarest. "He won't do that."

  "I don't suppose that he will. I don't think I could shock him if I tried." Stretching, she looked down at herself. "You know, if anyone had told me yesterday that I would be standing like this in front of a man I would have called him a liar. But it seems so natural. Earl?"